A Fixed Point
by HelenaHGWells
Summary: A one-shot that imagines Stacker Pentecost having OCD.


**TW: obsessive compulsions/obsessive thoughts**

* * *

He opens his eyes and stares into blackness when the alarm wakes him. There are no windows in the bunks. He likes this; he won't be woken by the call of birds or the shifting time of dawn. It creates certainty. As he flicks on the dim naked lights, his empty room is illuminated. He likes this too, the sparseness, everything pared down to only what is necessary. It gives him less to have to deal with. He can focus on what is important.

Still, his mind has a way of finding things with which to become preoccupied; to fixate on.

At the sink in the corner of his room, he washes his hands and face. The water is scolding and the skin on his hands has become cracked and dry. He wipes them on a paper towel and throws the towel straight into the trash. He used to use cloth towels, but the laundry built up too fast. He feels guilty about the waste, throwing out so much rubbish, but he knows that the alternative is to become paralyzed with the thought of the germs and bacteria lurking on every surface he touches, now on his hands, then getting inside him. At least this way he can control it.

He takes a plain white pill from the tin box in his pocket and swallows it without water. This is how he marks time now; in the pills he takes four times a day; in the numbers that tick by on the war clock, counting down to the next Kaiju attack.

As he dresses, he does not look at the scars burned into his flesh, but he knows they are there and feels his heart-rate rising in his avoidance of them. The seared patterns from his Jaeger suit remind him of how things can go wrong, of how his body is failing, of the things he cannot control. He buttons his shirt quickly, trying to ignore the differing sensation of the fastenings against the tips of his right fingers, now his left. They feel different; uneven. He likes things to be even.

He puts on his jacket, carefully folding down the collar, smoothing the lapels, pulling down the sleeves evenly; first the right, now the left, now the right a little more, and the left again. Satisfied, he turns to leave, but a thought stops him. He should probably make his bed. He wants to leave it for later- there's no need to do it now. No, do it now. He does it now; pulling the cover up to the pillows, walking around to the other side of the bed to make sure it sits evenly, going back around again to tweak the other corner a little more, walking around again and back and again and back because now he has to touch each side an even number of times. How many times though? Maybe ten? But ten isn't enough. Twenty? Forty is a better number. He feels the frustration swelling up in his chest; he can't decide how many times is right. This could go on forever and he wants to stop; he can't start off the day like this. It can't all start this early today.

He stands at the foot of the bed, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Takes another. Looks at the bed. The covers are even; they're fine. He forces himself to walk to the door.

He checks his tie in the mirror before the front door to make sure it's straight. Not quite. Almost. He moves it back and forth. Now it's too tight. He takes it off to begin again, the frustration swelling once more, pressure building in his chest. He doesn't have time for this; he's going to be late. With the growing pressure grows also the fear, the need to do it right, to get it perfect. He can't get it right. He undoes the tie again. He is going to be late. He stairs at his reflection as his fingers work at his throat. Baleful dark brown eyes stare back, the left one twitches slightly, then the right, to be even. His black hair is shaved close; closer than he would have liked but he just couldn't seem to put down the clippers because it didn't look even, so he'd cut and cut away until finally the sides were shaved just to stubble.

He gets the tie knot pretty close but his fingers itch to undo and retie it. He is going to be late. He grabs his coat, flings it on„ moves decisively towards the door in a burst of movement that he knows is the only thing that will get him out, away. He will stand at that mirror all day if he doesn't move now. He pulls the door shut behind him, locks it, turns, pauses, turns back, checks the handle, turns, pauses, wants to turn back. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, wills himself to move forward. He will not turn back.

In the mess hall he picks up his coffee and a plate of whatever slop the kitchen is serving today. He doesn't mind the food; it's better than when he had to cook for himself. He remembers well how time consuming these simple actions could become on his bad days; setting the kettle on the hob, turning it so that the handle sat parallel to the edge of the stove top. Not quite. Tweaking it a little. Too much. Pushing it back. Almost… His hands would clench into fists as he forced himself not to reach out for the kettle again. His fingers are balled up now just thinking about it.

These rituals are coping mechanisms that developed over the years. They came from a career of military service, where order and regimes and discipline were encouraged. He began to realize that his desire for control had gone beyond what was strictly required sometime after the invasion began. The heightened stress, the life or death of every day out in a Jaeger, the demands of being a pilot, the self reliance, the imperative that everything is done exactly as it should be because one wrong move and it would all be over…

His compulsions became exponentially worse when he became a father. There was something about the vulnerability and dependence of youth that brought out in him both protectiveness and a wild imagination capable of conjuring up every possible scenario in every event, each more dangerous and inevitable than the last. When faced with overwhelming odds and little ability to influence the trajectory of the lives of their children, many parents turn to prayer. His prayers were full of negotiations, as if he could bargain for her safety with some omnipotent being; if he just got this thing right, she would live. If this mission was a success, she would be healthy. If he was made the correct decision every time and the Jaeger program continued to be a resounding success, she would grow up and be happy.

But it was when he came to the Shatterdome that his thought patterns intensified. It was make or break time, and everyone was relying on him; not just those within the Shatterdome itself, or even the whole of China, but the entire world. With the Kaiju attacks increasing in frequency and ferocity, and the Jaeger program slated for decommissioning, things had taken on a desperate air, and it was all that he could do from keeping that desperation from creeping out of him, and becoming visible to those around him, who were looking to him for a solution. It was imperative that they not be allowed to see the truth.

Then she started pushing to be allowed to be a pilot. After he watched her spar with Raleigh, he knew it was all over. There was no reasoning with her now, only bargaining with the gods, using the increasingly complex set of rules and behaviors and patterns he had developed. Do everything right, and everyone would live. Make sure everything was done correctly, and she would be alright; from the perfectly pressed line of his pant legs, to the smoothness of his shaved cheeks, to the set of this squared shoulders. His actions were like the counting of prayer beads; rituals that brought the promise of salvation.

He reaches the control room. Soldiers greets him. They will not see past the facade. He is a picture of immovable strength.

There is so much uncertainty to life here every day, waiting for the next Kaiju attack, never knowing exactly when or where it will be but knowing it will be soon, and they are not ready. There is never enough time. He creates predictability in other ways, by controlling what is around him, by making sure everything is just so, by ensuring there is no room for error even in the most minute and mundane of details. He forces order where before there was disorder. He creates certainty.

To everyone else on this base, he is a fixed point.

And they would never know how much it cost him.

It is 7:00am and he is already exhausted.


End file.
